Mary | Page 3

when Mary, the little blushing girl, appeared, she would send the
awkward thing away. To own the truth, she was awkward enough, in a
house without any play-mates; for her brother had been sent to school,
and she scarcely knew how to employ herself; she would ramble about
the garden, admire the flowers, and play with the dogs. An old
house-keeper told her stories, read to her, and, at last, taught her to read.
Her mother talked of enquiring for a governess when her health would
permit; and, in the interim desired her own maid to teach her French.
As she had learned to read, she perused with avidity every book that
came in her way. Neglected in every respect, and left to the operations
of her own mind, she considered every thing that came under her
inspection, and learned to think. She had heard of a separate state, and
that angels sometimes visited this earth. She would sit in a thick wood
in the park, and talk to them; make little songs addressed to them, and
sing them to tunes of her own composing; and her native wood notes
wild were sweet and touching.
Her father always exclaimed against female acquirements, and was
glad that his wife's indolence and ill health made her not trouble herself
about them. She had besides another reason, she did not wish to have a
fine tall girl brought forward into notice as her daughter; she still
expected to recover, and figure away in the gay world. Her husband
was very tyrannical and passionate; indeed so very easily irritated when
inebriated, that Mary was continually in dread lest he should frighten

her mother to death; her sickness called forth all Mary's tenderness, and
exercised her compassion so continually, that it became more than a
match for self-love, and was the governing propensity of her heart
through life. She was violent in her temper; but she saw her father's
faults, and would weep when obliged to compare his temper with her
own.--She did more; artless prayers rose to Heaven for pardon, when
she was conscious of having erred; and her contrition was so
exceedingly painful, that she watched diligently the first movements of
anger and impatience, to save herself this cruel remorse.
Sublime ideas filled her young mind--always connected with
devotional sentiments; extemporary effusions of gratitude, and
rhapsodies of praise would burst often from her, when she listened to
the birds, or pursued the deer. She would gaze on the moon, and ramble
through the gloomy path, observing the various shapes the clouds
assumed, and listen to the sea that was not far distant. The wandering
spirits, which she imagined inhabited every part of nature, were her
constant friends and confidants. She began to consider the Great First
Cause, formed just notions of his attributes, and, in particular, dwelt on
his wisdom and goodness. Could she have loved her father or mother,
had they returned her affection, she would not so soon, perhaps, have
sought out a new world.
Her sensibility prompted her to search for an object to love; on earth it
was not to be found: her mother had often disappointed her, and the
apparent partiality she shewed to her brother gave her exquisite
pain--produced a kind of habitual melancholy, led her into a fondness
for reading tales of woe, and made her almost realize the fictitious
distress.
She had not any notion of death till a little chicken expired at her feet;
and her father had a dog hung in a passion. She then concluded animals
had souls, or they would not have been subjected to the caprice of man;
but what was the soul of man or beast? In this style year after year
rolled on, her mother still vegetating.
A little girl who attended in the nursery fell sick. Mary paid her great
attention; contrary to her wish, she was sent out of the house to her

mother, a poor woman, whom necessity obliged to leave her sick child
while she earned her daily bread. The poor wretch, in a fit of delirium
stabbed herself, and Mary saw her dead body, and heard the dismal
account; and so strongly did it impress her imagination, that every night
of her life the bleeding corpse presented itself to her when the first
began to slumber. Tortured by it, she at last made a vow, that if she was
ever mistress of a family she would herself watch over every part of it.
The impression that this accident made was indelible.
As her mother grew imperceptibly worse and worse, her father, who
did not understand such a lingering complaint, imagined his wife was
only grown still more whimsical, and that if she could be prevailed on
to exert herself, her health would soon be re-established.